LETTER IX.

O Love! O Love! O Gateway of Delight!

Thou porch of peace, thou pageant of the prime

Of all God's creatures! I am here to climb

Thine upward steps, and daily and by night

To gaze beyond them, and to search aright

The far-off splendour of thy track sublime.

For, in thy precincts, on the further side,

Beyond the turret where the bells are rung,

Beyond the chapel where the rites are sung,

There is a garden fit for any bride.

O Love! by thee, by thee are sanctified

The joys thereof to keep our spirits young.

By thee, dear Love! by thee, if all be well —

And we be wise enough to own the touch

Of some bright folly that has thrill'd us much —

By thee, till death, we may regain the spell

Of wizard Merlin, and in every dell

Confront a Muse, and bow to it as such.

Love! Happy Love! Behold me where I stand

This side thy portal, with my straining eyes

Turn'd to the Future. Cloudless are the skies,

And, far adown the road which thou hast spann'd,

I see the groves of that elected land

Which is the place I call my paradise.

But what is this? The plains are known to me;

The hills are known, the fields, the little fence,

The noisy brook as clear as innocence,

And this old oak, the wonder of the lea,

Which stops the wind to know if there shall be

Sorrow for men, or pride, or recompense.

I know these things, yet hold it little blame

To know them not, though in their proud array,

The flowers advance to make the world so gay.

Ah, what a change! The things I know by name

Look unfamiliar all, and, like a flame,

The roses burn upon the hedge to-day.

The grass is velvet. There are pearls thereon,

And golden signs, and braid that doth appear

Made for a bridal. This is fairy gear

If I mistake not. I shall know anon.

Nature herself will teach me how to con

The new-found words to thank the glowing year.

This is the path that led me to the brook;

And this the mead, and this the mossy slope,

And this the place where breezes did elope

With giddy moths, enamour'd of a look;

And here I sat alone, or with a book,

Dreaming the dreams of constancy and hope.

I loved the river well; but not till now

Did I perceive the marvels of the shore.

This is a cave, and this an emerald floor;

And here Sir Englantine might make a vow,

And here a king, a guilty king, might bow

Before a child, and break his word no more.

The day is dying. I shall see him die,

And I shall watch the sunset, and the red

Of all that splendour when the day is dead.

And I shall see the stars upon the sky,

And think them torches that are lit on high

To light the Lord Apollo to his bed.

And sweet To-morrow, like a golden bark,

Will call for me, and lead me on apace

To where I shall behold, in all her grace,

Mine own true Lady, whom a happy lark

Did late salute, appointing, after dark,

A nightingale to carol in his place.

Oh, come to me! Oh, come, beloved day,

O sweet To-morrow! Youngest of the sons

Of old King Time, to whom Creation runs

As men to God. Oh, quickly with thy ray

Anoint my head, and teach me how to pray,

As gentle Jesus taught the little ones.

I am aweary of the waiting hours,

I am aweary of the tardy night.

The hungry moments rob me of delight,

The crawling minutes steal away my powers;

And I am sick at heart, as one who cowers,

In lonely haunts, remov'd from human sight.

How shall I think the night was meant for sleep,

When I must count the dreadful hours thereof,

And cannot beat them down, or bid them doff

Their hateful masks? A man may wake and weep

From hour to hour, and, in the silence deep,

See shadows move, and almost hear them scoff.

Oh, come to me, To-morrow! like a friend,

And not as one who bideth for the clock.

Be swift to come, and I will hear thee knock,

And though the night refuse to make an end

Of her dull peace, I promptly will descend

And let thee in, and thank thee for the shock.

Dear, good To-morrow! in my life, till now,

I did not think to need thee quite so soon.

I did not think that I should hate the moon,

Or new or old, or that my fevered brow

Requir'd the sun to cool it. I will bow

To this new day, that he may grant the boon.

Yes,‘ twill consent. The day will dawn at last.

Day and the tide approach. They cannot rest.

They must approach. They must by every test

Of all men's knowledge, neither slow nor fast,

Approach and front us. When the night is past,

The morrow's dawn will lead me to my quest.

Then shall I tremble greatly, and be glad,

For I shall meet my true-love all alone,

And none shall tell me of her dainty zone,

And none shall say how sweetly she is clad;

But I shall know it. Men may call me mad;

But I shall know how bright the world has grown.

There is a grammar of the lips and eyes,

And I have learnt it. There are tokens sure

Of trust in love; and I have found them pure.

Is love the guerdon then? Is love the prize?

It is! It is! We find it in the skies,

And here on earth‘ tis all that will endure.

All things for love. All things in some divine

And wish'd for way, conspire, as Nature knows,

To some great good. Where'er a daisy grows

There grows a joy. The forest-trees combine

To talk of peace when mortals would repine;

And he is false to God who flouts the rose.